


Found Something New (By Looking At You)

by callmedok



Category: Brütal Legend, Psychonauts (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Families of Choice, Lavender Scare, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pets, Queer History, Red Scare, References to Canon, Slice of Life, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-30 12:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17223914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmedok/pseuds/callmedok
Summary: It's 1965, and Alexander 'Sasha' Nein isn't sure if he wants to risk his job when he's fought tooth and nail to keep it. His partner Eddie is all in support of ditching the government lifestyle, but if he does this...Well, some things haunt a man for the rest of his life.(It's 1957, and he meets a greaser during a bar raid. It's 1973, and cat paws dig into his ribs. Life is a strange tide of fear and joy, but it all balances out in the end.)





	1. Found Something New (By Looking At You)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sonicsora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicsora/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks, who's ready for some G A Y H I S T O R Y
> 
> So I got some prompts from sonicsora in the Brütal Legend Secret Santa, and the one I latched onto was Eddie/Sasha, stealing kisses while Sasha's supposed to be working. Sora, my friend. You won the goblin brain lottery, and ended up with something vaguely related that's hopefully satisfying. Also, hey! First historical AU for either game, folks! It's a milestone.
> 
> Title comes from I Knew I'd Want You by The Byrds, 1965. All the quotes in this chapter come from gay/lesbian fiction.

_"But_ now _isn’t simply now._ Now _is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every_ now _is labelled with its date, rendering all past_ nows _obsolete, until- later or sooner- perhaps- no, not perhaps- quite certainly: it will come.”_ – Christopher Isherwood, A Single Man (1964)

*

It is August of 1965, and the mornings start nearly the same way they have for the last fifteen or so years.

An alarm clock goes off at 6 AM, and tinny music plays as he blinks into wakefulness. He struggles to unearth himself from the tangle of old quilts and comforters, things he half-remembers buying or receiving at various points. Then comes the glasses-less stumble towards the bathroom, because there’s almost something comforting in the world being soft and hazy around the edges until he decides to slide them on.

Getting dressed in comparison is straightforward enough, with the dress code being what it is. Hair slicked back nice and neat, _‘We don’t accept any of those strange types here, Mr. Nein,’_ a dress shirt with a starched collar that always itches no matter how many times it’s washed. Suit jacket with matching slacks, a dark tie to go along with, always some discreet neutral shade because god forbid the stamp of individuality.

Individuality meant standing out, and there led the terror of a few years before. There lay the path of accusations, harsh words said behind backs, and it was already rough enough with the name Nein attached to his personnel file. His accent still rolling around words like a rockslide in motion? An even darker mark against him, and there’d been no pride as he lied through his teeth about what he had with Milla. Made their lunches together into sordid things, an affair neither of them publicized because how would it look, both of them government workers on different levels fraternizing with each other?

But those are old memories now. Laid to rest because he’s been vetted as squeaky clean, simply another man aspiring towards the American Dream, not a communist bone in sight. How could someone look at him, and think this upstanding man was some sort of threat?

He finishes fixing his tie by the time he gets to the kitchen, and absently starts preparing coffee. By now its second nature, anything to avoid the strange bitter slick that lived in the office pot, and his thoughts are able to drift for a while. He’d had a reoccurring dream recently, and it was… strange, fascinating, something worthy of one of the sci-fi pulps he picked up now and then. A bit of a sideways step in reality where he and Milla were secret agents with magnificent powers, and Ford was once more their guiding hand.

Nostalgia and memories have been trailing behind him the last few weeks, and he wishes he knew why.

Maybe he’s coming down with something again, which would explain why every day has felt like moving through molasses. The lifestyle of constant work and little breathing was a rough one, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it was finally catching up to him. Or, he thinks a bit cynically as he takes a paperback from his countertop, maybe it was these letters haunting him.

He thumbs through it idly as he waits for the familiar _plip_ of the percolator, a mug and his thermos already waiting on the counter next to the stove. Miss Sayers would probably disapprove of homophile notes and propaganda being tucked into her mystery novels, but needs must and all that. It was on hand when he needed to consult with Milla over the contents, and so they stayed there.

The most recent letter is tucked near the middle, and the flower drawn near his name on the envelope makes him smile slightly, albeit with a sad edge. He traces it for a moment, thinking of mismatched eyes and a well-thumbed drawing pad, before letting it drift away. First infatuations never lasted long for a reason, especially when one was a teenager.

There was a strange delight, however, in reconnecting and discovering that they were in the same boat all along.

But this latest thing Oleander has passed onto him, he’s still mulling over. Trying to decide if it would be worth the risk, or if he should just maintain course as always. Alexander Nein wasn’t a man to go into something without thought, he needed weeks of introspection and doing his own personal inquiries before he even thought of stepping a toe out of line.

And if he crossed this line, there was a good chance of never coming back.

People had been ruined for less, over friendships and going to the wrong places. To actively get involved with something of this magnitude, hell, end up in the papers even…. That was something that ruined every other career afterwards. Something that trailed after you like a ghost, no matter how noble it was in name.

The question here is, is Alexander Nein ready to risk everything he’s spent his life working towards, in the name of being a good man?

Before he can even try to answer that again, or go over the list that he knows backwards and forwards by heart, the coffee’s done and the clock on his wall is reading 6:40. The paperback is tucked into his briefcase at the kitchen table, letters safely stowed within, and he snags a bagel from the breadbox after filling his mug. Sets the percolator on the backburner, and wanders to the front room to comb through his bookshelves as he eats breakfast.

It isn’t much here, nothing even close to the diner breakfasts on stolen weekends, but it’s his. It’s what he has, and what he’s had for the entire time he’s been living this way. Knocking around in an apartment that’s too large for one man, with only bookshelves and a messy sink to show he even lives here. Half the time he defaults to a nearby automat or one of the cheap fast food places springing up like weeds for dinner, and breakfast is whatever takes the least effort to prepare. The radio fills the silence on long weekends, and the television was bought more out of a feeling he _had_ to own one, rather than a desire to do so.

The apartment isn’t home, more of a rest stop where he sleeps now and then, and he wants more from life. He wants more than this, and isn’t that the funniest thing of all. Having actual ambitions beyond work or vaguely wondering when the next science fiction or mystery pulp will hit the racks, when that used to be all he had too.

He snags a slightly ragged looking Christie to add to his briefcase as well, with nothing inside beyond a small inscription in front. Pen strokes that dug into the cover, blue ink saying ‘ _Merry Christmas, Sasha – E’,_ nothing incriminating in the slightest, and it means something else to hide behind. Easy enough to pass off showing Milla the letters at lunch with lending her books, and if anyone catches him reading the Christie it’s all fine and dandy.

There’s just a tiny flicker of warmth when he sees the heavily-filled E, and no one will catch that. No one will know it even exists besides Milla, who can read him like a favorite book after knowing him for so long. The same way he lingered over the occasional note, she smiled fondly over the sketches on napkins in her purse.

So when he leaves this morning, thermos tucked under an arm and briefcase in hand, he already knows how the day will play out. Handle the latest stack of paperwork that one of the higher-ups delegated to him instead of doing themselves (goddamn _Loboto_ ), go through a few case files once he dealt with that mess, and manage to swing lunch with Milla. See if tonight was one of the nights they could slip away, and plan further from there because it’d been only two weeks, but…

If he was going to throw himself wholeheartedly into something that could cost him his job, it’d be nice to consult with his partner first. Even if, truth be told, Eddie would be relieved he was finally leaving the position that had him constantly looking over his shoulder.

*

Eddie and Ophelia’s apartment, by contrast, felt lived-in. Like an old sweater that conformed to the shape of its wearer, to go inside was to see part of them reflected back.

There, over the worn-in and slightly threadbare couch, was some of Ophelia’s artwork. Menacing figures and whimsical beasts done in India ink, part of her old portfolio that she’d since retired, the very artwork that resulted in the colorful stains that couldn’t be removed from the kitchen table, out of the carpet. Near the television, on a small stand of its own, was Eddie’s record player, well-thumbed vinyl sleeves tucked in the cubby underneath, corners gone soft from handling. Some blanket neither of them knew where it came from was draped over the back of the couch, and everyone who used it swore that it was the softest thing in existence.

The bookcase near the couch is stuffed close to the point of overflowing, with no rhyme or reason in sight when it comes to its content. Pulps crammed wherever they can fit, traditional hardbacks with cracking spines because they can’t find time to rebind them, a few colorfully rebound books because somewhere along the line Ophelia had picked up the skill and decided to have fun with some pulps she wanted to keep. Milla has one on her own bookcase, as Sasha can recall from the rare times where they went to her apartment for drinks and mutual complaining.

(Her cheeks had flushed when, a few drinks in, Sasha asked about it, and she’d gestured vaguely in its direction as she replied “It was- it was the one I was reading, when we met. Under all the leather she’s rather sweet, darling. I thought you of all people would know this, considering...” She’d laughed as he blushed, mumbled something into his glass that was lost to the night.)

All in all their apartment feels like a _home,_ and the part of Sasha that still wandered down old familiar streets to peer into a bustling storefront, still remembered cutting his English on Edgar Rice Burroughs and Agatha Christie by flickering candlelight, wanted to stay here forever. Wanted to take the carefully rebound collection of Verne that still had his father’s fingerprints staining some of the pages with shoe polish, and rest it on Eddie’s side table. Wanted to argue with Ophelia over what cups to use for painting, and pretend to gag when he almost sipped from the watercolor one by accident. He wanted to wake up in a place humming with life, instead of one that felt so devoid of it.

But even now, what he wanted was as good as dust in the wind. Fifteen years dedicated to any federal job meant practically selling your soul away, and it was either death or old age that let you slip out of such a bargain. He hadn’t hit either mark yet, and if he wanted to retire instead of lose his benefits he’d have to grin and bear it just a bit longer.

Just a bit longer of an empty apartment, stolen hours, and looking over his shoulder before he could hopefully spend the rest of his days with his partner.

He’s lucky Cornbread even still recognizes him, the gray cat rushing over to him the second the front door closes. Meowing and rubbing herself against his slacks, trying to play the innocent card even as Eddie’s sputtering over an empty tuna can and Ophelia looks five seconds away from laughing. Sasha scoops her up without thought though after Milla’s arm has left his, and she coos at the cat as Sasha replies dryly “We’ve had this conversation, Bready. Eddie’s in charge, and you’re not allowed to steal things.”

The cat meows something he’ll interpret as an ‘I do whatever I wish, human’, blinking her big green eyes innocently at him, and he snorts. Lowers her down to the floor until she slips from his arms like water given shape, and runs over to Ophelia who’s never mistreated her a day in her life. All Sasha does is sigh and head for the kitchen where Eddie’s grumbling about greedy cats, while Milla goes to talk to Ophelia and smother the beast with love.

He rests a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, resisting the urge to lean into him immediately, and asks bluntly “Does the hellion need some time at my place?” The questions makes Eddie pause for a second, registering the fact he’s here, and then he laughs. It’s a good laugh, low and warm and deep, and something Sasha wishes he could hear every day. Wishes he could be the reason for the following smile, be it from some ridiculous aside or just a moment of kindness.

“Nah, s’fine, babe. She’s just gettin’ rowdy, with both of us bein’ out today. Give it an hour or two, and she’ll be a lazy little lump.” Eddie replies, leaning against the counter out of habit, and Sasha rolls his eyes with a slight smile. “Sounds like someone I know,” he teases, and when Eddie makes an affronted noise he laughs.

And for a while things are like that, where all they do is catch up and talk. Bad customers and bad bosses are the topic of choice, wheeling the latest impressions out and seeing who can make the others laugh the most, where the only reward is another drink. The atmosphere is easy, friendly, and here Sasha can lean into Eddie without a thought. Milla can hold Ophelia’s hand, asking about the latest project based on the paint on them, and it’s… its good.

Which is why Sasha waits until after dinner to bring out the letter, and finally ask for some thoughts.

“Oleander sent me this, and I’ve been… thinking it over, for the last few weeks, and I feel like…” Sasha’s voice trails off as Eddie turns around at the sink with dishes still in hand, and his heart creeps up in his throat, just a little. “I feel like I should go. I only slipped out because of Ford, and I could do something with that, I could-” He makes a frustrated noise, gestures vaguely at the air, and continues with an even more jumbled, “ I could help others for once, instead of keeping my head down, instead of being so afraid, and it’s only in October, I can lie enough, I could-”

Eddie’s hands are big, big enough that his own feel swallowed up, and hides the paper from his sight. There’s a smudge of grease on the back he forgot to wipe away, and part of Sasha recoils at the thought of the paper being stained, but as he’s looking up to- what, admonish, reprimand, snap something?- the words die on his tongue.

Because Eddie’s smiling, gently and as lovely as the first few hours they met, watching the kitten that’d become theirs fumble her way through the apartment. There was the tender look shared in stolen hours, occasionally illuminated by the streetlight shining through the curtain. The quiet warmth in his eyes that made Sasha’s heart feel like it was filled with sparklers, a starburst trapped behind his ribs.

“Hey, Sasha, we’ll figure this out together, alright? It ain’t happenin’ tomorrow, or next week, based on what you’re sayin’,” Eddie begins, and the way he says things, it doesn’t feel like a brush-off. It doesn’t feel trite, or something to argue over. Just facts being laid out on the table, and the part of Sasha that craves his company overrules the part that wants to draw away to make a point.

 “We got time, Sasha. We’ll make it work,” Eddie continues with a slight grin, and when he speaks that way he _believes_ him. Honestly truly believes him, and he can count on one hand how many others he’s placed such trust in. Most of them are in this room anyways, and that alone should say enough.

“We always make it work, don’t we,” He replies a bit distantly, still tangled up in his train of thought, but before he can move or dive back into the pool of panic still ebbing at his mind, Eddie kisses him.

Cups Sasha’s cheek, draws his thumb down his jaw, and kisses him like something out of the movies. Not the stiff awkward passion where it felt closer to an assault than an embrace, but instead it’s... soft, careful, and reassuring. A comforting press of lips that’s so casual and off the cuff it leaves him a little stunned, because he’d always labelled this as a ‘never have.’ In that moment it doesn’t matter that Ophelia and Milla are right behind them on the couch, could see this as easily as the television screen. It doesn’t matter that under his hands is a list of [protest instructions,](http://www.kamenypapers.org/images/KamenyPicketInstructions.jpg) which could doom his entire life if he actually went and followed through with what Kameny was laying out clear as day.

All that matters is how it feels to tangle his fingers with Eddie’s, and kiss him back.

Somehow, they’ve managed to weather the past eight or so years together. Somehow, they’ve managed to build what feels like a steady relationship in the past seven. Even now Cornbread is rubbing against his leg, meowing pitifully as she tries to bait him into giving her treats. Behind him is the rustle of papers being unrolled as Ophelia shows Milla her latest book cover job in glee, probably weighing down the corners on the coffee table with their empty mugs. In front of him, with a hand on his cheek and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke mixed with grease and sweat, is Eddie. Eddie with his heart of gold and larger than life laugh, who always made him feel so safe and warm in his arms.

If they’ve made it this far, if these things have stayed the same despite everything, then maybe it can be like this in the future too.

*

 _“There was a vague, strange feeling in the younger girl that to get too close to Beth was to worship her, and to worship her was to get hurt. As yet, Beth made no sense to her, she fit no mold, and Laura wanted to keep herself at an emotional distance from her. She had never met or read or dreamed a Beth before.”_ \- Ann Bannon, Odd Girl Out (1957)

_*_

The thing is, it’s December of 1957 and his hands are shaking to the point where he nearly spills his drink simply lifting it from the bar countertop.

A week ago, he was taken to a small dark room inexplicably at work and told that there were certain rumors drifting around. With a name like Nein and a nickname like Sasha he stood out when mentioned, and wasn’t that an interesting name?

(“ _Is that Russian, German?” “German,” he replied hollowly, took a drag from his cigarette and hoped his hands weren’t shaking.)_

There were still those lingering communist rumors, murmurs of lavender boys slipping secrets to the Commies, and it’d be such a shame if he had to be dismissed over his name. It’s not like his name was in the newspapers under certain arrests that they’d already combed through, or as if he ran with various unsavory types off the clock, did he? Wasn’t it interesting, touching even, that both he and Ms. Vodello, both of them immigrants, had managed to find each other and perhaps even love in this setting?

( _There were envelopes from an old friend in D.C. slotted between the pages of a clothbound copy of Jules Verne_ , _various pamphlets and other correspondence enclosed, and he regarded the interrogators coolly, confident that no investigator has been in his home. Strengthened himself with the memory of Milla saying “Darling, whatever we have to do, I won’t fault you,” as she rested a hand on his arm.)_

It is December of 1957, and it hasn’t quite been three months since The Guardian brought up information from Britain’s Wolfenden Report on one of the back pages. There’s still a stained shirt on the floor of his closet from nearly choking on his coffee the morning he read it. He’d almost been late to work that day sans tie, abandoning it as a soaked lost cause as he all but ran to his car, and Milla had pointed it out at lunch. It had been a strangely solemn affair considering it was usually the one time they could speak somewhat freely, and she had smiled weakly as he covered her hand with his in a spur of the moment decision.

Neither of them mentioned the newspaper pages she slid into the trash afterwards, plucked from a table they passed by at the beginning of their lunch break. He hadn’t protested when she looped her arm through his as they walked back to the offices, a sort of desperation in the gesture as he felt her hand tighten like an iron band around his upper arm. He hadn’t objected when she pressed a kiss to his cheek in full view of one of her fellow secretaries leaving for their own lunch, because it was a long game they were playing. A delicate agreement they’d established to protect each other, a dance in a dark room where neither of them knew where the drop-off of a pit might be.

It is December of 1957, and he feels that if anything extreme happens tonight he is going to break.

He takes a decent-sized sip of some beer he can’t recall the name of, and tries to avoid letting his eyes linger in one place for too long. There are still shadows everywhere he looks, an uneasy feeling that he might have been followed even with a clean review, and while this isn’t a recognized bar for certain gatherings he almost regrets coming here. Usually this wasn’t where his interests lie anyway, far too aware of how easily the tongue loosened when plied with alcohol.

But he’s been on edge, jittery even, since Milla didn’t show up for lunch earlier. Since she didn’t pick up when he called her after work, a cool kind of panic starting to bloom behind his ribs. He needs a break somewhere close to anonymous, somewhere where he could possibly take someone home and no one would react because, well. Let he who knows no sin cast the first stone, and they were all living inside glass houses around here.

Of course though, with the way his luck is running, the second he sets his glass down is when the police start bursting in. A split second is long enough for him to nearly break the damn glass, long enough to mentally wave his car and briefcase goodbye as he stands up, enough time to run. He’s not the only one doing it, just messy enough as others make for the front door instead of the back entrance, and for once there was an advantage to being thin and awkward rather than broad and stocky.

In a faint panic, his brain latches onto the comparison of a salmon swimming upstream, and he nearly laughs.

Just a week ago they told him “Information has come to the attention of the Civil Service Commission that you might be homosexual. What comment do you care to make?”, and he’d lied through his teeth. Lied because Milla couldn’t be dragged into this, because he hadn’t been to a bar in over a year, because this job was the only fucking thing in his life that remotely mattered nowadays. Lied because he still remembered Ford Cruller who had taken a no-name clerk under his wing, taught him how to wear the right suit, right tie and disappear into a crowd.

(He remembers Ford two years ago warning him that he was retiring soon, because “It’s become a hell of a time living this way, son, and I’m too old to care for it. Watch your mouth, though, I trust this bunch as far as I can throw them.” There’s a reason his letters read Lareau instead of Cruller nowadays, and knowing why feels like the world resting on his back. )

If it’s a bar raid that gets him ousted then it will all be for nothing, and he can’t, _won’t_ let that happen.

Which is why, when faced with towering piles of junk and no feasible way out, a soft disbelieving “Verdammt,” slips free. The just as quiet “Well, hell,” from behind him is enough to make him start, turn around ready to deny everything, only to stop as the words die in his throat.

The man behind him is big, broad shouldered with big hands, and the faint light gleams on the leather of his jacket. His hair is slicked back in the greaser fashion, he’s eyeing the backroom critically like solving a puzzle, and that’s… that’s doing something, under all the panic. That’s a look Sasha would love aimed at him any other time, if his heart wasn’t beating like a rabbit’s.

“Window?” The man suggests, gesturing to one of the ridiculous small ones near the top of the wall, and Sasha swallows out of sheer nerves. But it’s a way out, an option, and sometimes you just have to run with it. So he nods, and when the man gives him a boost to crack it open he ends up breaking the glass with his elbow instead. There’s a soft noise of surprise and he grins, before clearing out the rest of the glass with a gloved hand.

You pick up the most interesting things from mystery novels.

Once he’s managed to shimmy through, he offers the other man a hand up. The man takes it with a devil-may-care grin, hoists himself up, and sure there are police barely a moment later but he’s already clearing the broken window with his boots. He gives the police a rather obscene gesture that makes Sasha snort as he’s brushing glass off his coat sleeve.

“Got a bit of fight in you, Mr. Suit. Kinda hot, but we gotta cut out or get collared,” the other man says, still wearing that grin, and Sasha is about to bluster out some awkward reply when there’s a weak meowing near the trash cans. It’s a split second decision, impulsive considering everything else, but when he sees the abandoned kitten it’s all worthwhile. Even when one of the officers is struggling through the window to pursue them as the rest circle around to the front again, as he scoops up the shivering kitten and madly dashes after the other man, it’s worth it.

It’s still early enough in the evening that there are other people on the sidewalk, heads down and hands shoved in pockets. Enough people to get lost in to some degree, because in this part of town dark jackets are a dime a dozen. He barely manages to keep up with how fast the other man is moving, clinging to the gleam of leather and shiny hair like a lifeline, and doesn’t even stop to think when they pause besides an older car.

All he knows is that they’ve cut through a few side streets he hadn’t even known existed, there’s a kitten in his arms, and he can still hear sirens in the air. There’s the greaser pulling keys from his pockets, raising an eyebrow as he gestures to the car, and Sasha blames it on the cold as he flushes, nodding hastily in agreement as he distrusts his own voice. Better to get far away from this place and return for his similarly parked car in the morning, than risk it all now.

He can still see his breath in the other man’s car, trying to shove done the urge to look over his shoulder, but he’s just- he’s just a man right now, with another man, and a cat. They’ve done nothing wrong in their lives besides being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it’s only suspicious people that look over their shoulders. It’s only people who have done something wrong that get twitchy and strange.

The kitten weakly squirms in the crook of his arm, and he nearly drops it from that alone.

“So, I like knowin’ a guy’s name before I take him home. Name’s Riggs, but friends call me Eddie,” the greaser eventually offers, when the silence has dragged for too long and they’re speeding away. “I’d offer my hand, but,” Eddie, Edward maybe, continues with a light shrug, like this is a normal introduction, and Sasha laughs. He’ll deny years later it was anywhere close to hysterical, that his breath stuttered and almost changed into a sob, but tonight’s a strange night. The world’s collapsing around his ears in the same moment that everything feels so strangely _right,_ and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Nein, Alex Nein, and I…thank you, Mr. Riggs. I’m sorry to impose,” He eventually replies, running his free hand through his hair so he has a reason not to look the other man in the eyes. Briefly presses said hand against the squirming cat as well, adding without thought, “Apologies for this as well, I didn’t-I wasn’t thinking about logistics when I found them, it’s just…” His words trail off, and for a moment there’s nothing but the sound of the road underneath the tires, the harsh blue-green glow of the streetlights they pass on occasion.

It adds another surreal edge to the entire situation, but it also makes it easier to speak freely. Shed the usual unflappable persona he upheld at work, and let himself be so horribly emotional. “…They sounded so _alone_ ,” He continues softly, and offers the kitten a gloved finger to bat at. A brief distraction for himself, another reason not to look at the man beside him, because the way the streetlights catch on the planes of his face… A strong jaw with a bit of beard growing in, slicked-back hair that practically gleams, and the way his eyes look so dark and deep, like the bottom of the ocean or the endless night sky…

He swallows nervously, wiggling his finger as almost an afterthought in a tiny iron grip, and the sound is like a gunshot in his own ears.

“Hey, no worries, Nein. Y’got me outta a bad situation, ain’t a problem to offer you a place to lay low ‘til the morning. Just, ah,” Eddie lets out a laugh that feels larger than life, and Sasha’s heart betrays him almost instantly as it flutters. “I kinda got this roommate, Ophelia, who’ll blow her top if we wake her up. Like, any other time she’d be fine, but…I dunno, s’not like that lil guy is something we can bribe her with, like coffee or cornbread.” There’s silence for a moment, back in that strange place where nothing feels quite real, before it’s broken by a thoughtful “…Have you named it yet? ‘Cause, uh, I might have an idea, if that’s fine.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” Sasha replies distantly, giving him a vague gesture to continue. If he was honest, he’d given very little thought towards the rescued cat beyond ‘Warm it up’ and ‘feed it’. He wasn’t even sure if he’d keep it, because any pet required a certain amount of care he couldn’t guarantee. Something ~~someone~~ to come home to would be…nice, satisfying even, but what he wanted didn’t matter.

It hadn’t mattered for a good while now, considering how much of himself he had to hide.

“Cornbread. Cause, I mean, they look about the right size of a piece, and Ophelia will get a kick outta it before she kicks my ass,” Eddie replies seriously, as if they’re discussing battle plans rather than cat names, and Sasha can’t help it, he laughs. “Cornbread it is, then,” he agrees, and by then they’re pulling into a parking garage that doesn’t look like much on the outside, not like much on the inside either. Eddie’s car looks at home, pulling into a spot between other older cars that look…different, under the flickering lights, against the dirty concrete walls. They look unreal, the color of candy wrappers and the shining chrome of exposed engines, and tonight’s been strange enough he doesn’t comment.

Eddie somehow notices, reads his mind perhaps because it’s a night of impossible things, and comments as they’re climbing out, “We got a deal, me and some of the other guys.” Casts a brief glance to the glossy yellow car next to his, and lets out a huff of a laugh as he taps a knuckle against a dent. “Help ‘em maintain their rides, and they keep an eye on mine. Gotta watch each other’s backs, y’know?”  Sasha makes a vague noise of agreement, for a moment thinking of Milla and arms hooked together, kisses shared because it meant one more day without notice.

 In the crook of his arm Cornbread squirms awkwardly, and he shushes them without thought as he mulls things over while they walk. One elevator ride later where Sasha’s shrugged off his coat to wrap up the kitten and Eddie mimes zipping his mouth shut, they’re in a rather unremarkable apartment that nonetheless feels lived in. Scarves and coats haphazardly left over the arm of the couch, a television positioned just so that Eddie flips on without thought, colorful stains on the carpet that Sasha raises an eyebrow at while Eddie shrugs something close to sheepishly.

The newest episode of _M Squad_ plays on the television, sound turned down low and casting strange shadows as they busy themselves in the kitchen with figuring out what to do with the newly named Cornbread. Fussing and debating quietly over the merits of a shoebox lined with an old undershirt versus a bigger box lined with an extra sweater, what to feed the poor thing in a pinch, and whether or not Eddie’s roommate will tolerate the new addition to the household.  In the kitchen, small and cramped and awkward with the overhead light burning yellow, they’re forced into close quarters.

Elbows bumping against each other as coffee is begun, trying to avoid scraping the wooden chairs against the tiles as the mysterious Ophelia slumbers, and Eddie’s grin something close to stunning when he says “Y’got a soft heart there, Mr. Suit,” gesturing towards the kitten wrapped in Sasha’s coat.  Sasha rolls his eyes as he adjusts his grip on the swaddled cat, and hides a smile by taking a sip of coffee. Leans back in the chair, soaking up the company, and focusing on the other man rather than what occurred barely thirty minutes before.

“We had this talk on the way over, Mr. Riggs, the name is Nein, not Suit.” Sasha replies, feeling the coffee and the intimacy of the surroundings warm him from the winter chill. Perhaps it should be more awkward, in a strange man’s apartment when he’s in his shirt sleeves alone with no way home. Practically a world away from the man who walked into work this morning, but after everything tonight….

After everything tonight, a spiked coffee and pleasant company is a well-deserved reward.

“And I thought I said you could call me Eddie, Nein,” Eddie replies, leaning against the tiled counter, and even without the leather jacket the man is ridiculously handsome. The way his hands curl around the edge of the countertop, how his t-shirt clings to his frame just right, and he looks comfortable here. There’s a bit of curl starting to fall over an eye, and if Sasha was any closer he’d reach out to push it away. If he was any braver, he might even cup his cheek.

Instead he takes another sip of coffee, hiding his mouth from view as he offers “…My friends call me Sasha however,” and his smile is hidden too when Eddie laughs, says “Sasha, then,” so warmly it leaves butterflies in his stomach.

(“The second you snagged Cornbread, I knew,” Eddie says a few years later, when they’re tucked away in a diner booth on one of their stolen weekends. It’s nothing special but it’s theirs, a pocket of warmth in the dying months, somewhere where they’re Sasha and Eddie rather than Alexander and Riggs. “When you said ‘Window,’ I was almost head over heels,” Sasha replies without thought, tone serious as ever because he can’t help it, and Eddie’s replying grin still makes his breath catch a little.)

*

_“‘I let it boil and it’s got scum on it,’ Carol said, annoyedly. ‘I’m sorry.’_

_But Therese loved it, because she knew this was exactly what Carol would always do, be thinking of something else and let the milk boil.”_ – Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt/Carol (1953)

*

It is August of 1973, and the morning starts the same way they have for the last three years or so.

An alarm doesn’t go off at 6 AM, because now there’s a reason to leave it off on the weekends. Sasha’s face is buried in Eddie’s chest, and when Cornbread leaps up and starts meowing he tries to push her away. Manages a tired and faintly muffled “Bready, no,” only to end up properly petting her. He doesn’t even know Eddie’s awake until he feels him chuckle, and then there’s a larger hand covering his own on their cat’s head.

Cornbread just purrs and kneads her bony little paws into Sasha’s ribs, not even moving as he winces. “Eddie your cat is a menace,” he grumbles, even as he starts scratching under her collar just the way she likes. His partner laughs, louder this time, and steals a kiss before replying with a warm “Hey, I ain’t the one who stole her, babe,” that makes a laugh slip free. It’s too early by weekend standards to even pretend to be alive just yet, but right now this is enough.

It’s also enough to startle Cornbread into scurrying off, and Sasha sighs then, hooks his free arm over Eddie’s side. “Fair, but…” The words trail off with a thoughtful hum, and he presses a kiss to his partner’s collarbone, snuggles closer. “Before noon, she’s your cat, dear.” He adds once he’s comfortable again, tempted to fall asleep then and there with how warm it is under the covers.

How warm it is when they’re pressed almost skin to skin, hard to tell where one of them ends and the other begins with the curtains still drawn. The room is only cast in shades of blue, the alarm clock difficult to read at this angle, and it could be anywhere from seven in the morning to five in the afternoon right now. Time holds little meaning on the weekend, compared to a few years ago where they had to make every minute count.

Now, it was like they had all the time in the world.

“Fuckin’… what time is it, ‘cause I’m only movin’ for food and the cooler.” Eddie replies, shifting for a moment to look over his shoulder before making a dismissive noise, runs a hand up Sasha’s side. “Eh, s’only ten. Day in?”

Sasha mumbles something in agreement as he nods drowsily, breathe going a little shaky at the drag of calloused fingertips over his ribs, and this is… this is good. More than he’d ever dared to hope for, if he was completely honest, but somehow it was real. Despite the fact he was on the other side of the country, despite the fact he’d probably only ever see Ford and his father again by letter, he felt at rest here.

Felt like he’d finally found his home, the steady bedrock on which the rest of his life would rest.

“…Y’know though,” Eddie begins again, when the quiet has eased in and sprawled over them like a cat in sunlight, “We could see if that new sci-fi movie is playin’ yet. That one about explorin’ the sea, if you’re up for it.” Sasha shifts slightly in Eddie’s arms as he mulls it over, on one hand more sleep, and on the other an opportunity to enjoy themselves. If they stayed it’d be another day of Eddie working on his car while Sasha watched him from the porch, pretending to write as he tried not to stare too obviously. If they left, the potential of swinging by the bookstore or record place grew, and…

Well, it had been a while since they took some time to wander around town.

“If you make breakfast, I’ll follow you anywhere.” Sasha replies honestly, and his smile is partially hidden when Eddie laughs again. Then Cornbread leaps onto the bed again, and it’s a delightful game of trying to get out of bed without claws digging into them through the thin sheets.

*

In the end Alexander Nein wasn’t quite a brave man, when it came to that protest in October of 1965.

He didn’t go down to Washington, as one more person tired of this mess. Didn’t go, even as just support behind the scenes, because sometimes a decision that seems straightforward is far more complicated in the long run. He’d had the two-way train ticket in hand, an excuse prepared about taking the day off to check in on his elderly father who’s been in poor health, and when the day came he just…

He just couldn’t.

Ended up at Eddie and Ophelia’s apartment looking like he’d ducked out of work, words stuck in throat, not able to explain how his skin felt too small and the world felt too big. The coffee Ophelia brewed was dark and bitter, something he drank while it was still too hot so he could feel something, and she talked about everything and nothing as she painted. Didn’t ask about the ticket he ripped up and tossed in the trash, didn’t comment on why he lingered for hours until it was about time Eddie left the shop.

(Ophelia never asked or pushed, never did unless he was practically climbing the walls, and for that he loved her the same way he loved Milla.)

It’s not his finest hour, will never be something he looks on fondly, except for the fact that out of that he starts spending more time with Ophelia on occasion. Listening to her talk about art and music and books, and eventually moving to the friendly argument stage where they bicker the way friends do. In the last few months before retirement he starts cashing in time off just to feel like he can breathe, and even if that breathing includes Milla laughing her head off as he fights with Ophelia over abstract paintings being a disaster, it settles something in his chest.

Just feels like another part of the small fledgling family he’s created.

He and Eddie run away to a new life in the West, which is a story for another day of long hours driving and motel rooms where they lie about having a cat, lie about being old friends running into each other, lie about being friends with only each other in the world. In Eddie’s car the first few fledgling concepts that’ll become _Psychic Tales_ begin, in the moments where they’re sharing cigarettes and trying to figure out where they’ll call home. It makes it easier to imagine a future together as well, and as if that isn’t encouragement enough for their rash idea, then the way it felt like they were free is enough.

1966 to 1969 aren’t the best times in his life, but one day in 1970 where they’ve finally settled in, he’s at his typewriter as he hears Eddie, Milla, and Ophelia laughing as Led Zeppelin plays, he knows that time helped him get to here. And here isn’t perfect, won’t last forever, but it lasts for now.

And sometimes, the now just has to be enough.

 *

_CODA  
_

_*_

Sasha sets the receiver down, and mulls over what Milla has just told him. Goes to the backyard, hand in his pocket, and lights a cigarette on the back stoop. Takes a drag or two as he leans against the door frame, looking over the back wall at their neighbor’s white-washed home.

The summer air is dry, and feels like a brittle twig that could snap in an instant. The purple-gray clouds looming on the horizon are testament to that, and there’s a sense of… something he can’t shake. Something heavy and strange, and the world feels distant around him.

He should have said no. Ten year olds should be playing with friends, or going to the library, or whatever it was they did these days. They should be entering school at the end of August in these parts, rather than talking to old authors.

But Milla had said “He needs someone to talk to, someone he trusts. He likes your work, darling,” and that was…important. Something he hadn’t expected, something that forced him to pause. After he’d met Milla, he’d read everything she offered him. Devoured every page even if they dripped with loathing and despair, as a way to slide past the censors.

To think that someone had found themselves in _Psychic Tales…_

Well, it was both ego inducing, and strangely touching. Probably why Milla had brought it up in the first place, to soften him up a bit. Sasha snorts, and tosses the remainder of his cigarette into an empty planter nearby.

He would have done it anyways, the second Milla asked for help.

*                                                                                              

A few days later Milla shows up on his doorstep, with a young boy trailing behind her like a shadow.

She’s dressed like she came directly from work, still in a navy skirt suit and a briefcase in hand, but that’s normal by now. Even if they no longer worked together old habits die hard, and her apartment here was as familiar as his own home. The boy clings to the straps of a battered backpack like a lifeline, with glasses as thick as Sasha’s and a serious sort of expression on his face. The kind of defiance only someone his age could have, so sure that the world will either bend or they’ll force it to bend with their own two hands.

It was a good expression to use when you wanted everyone to leave you alone, or you were swearing up and down everything was fine even as you were nursing a broken arm.

It was an expression he’d seen in the mirror the last few years he worked for Social Services, trying to turn himself into iron and bedrock even as he could feel parts of himself crumbling away. Gritting his teeth whenever another stack of paperwork was dumped on his desk, pretending a pencil was a higher-up’s neck, and dreaming of the day he could finally leave feeling his work was done.

Dreaming of when things would finally become that nebulous _better_ people always talked about, because there was only so much longer he could take living what felt like two separate lives.

To see a similar expression on someone so young, it definitely clarifies why Milla brought the boy here for a talk. Supervised of course, probably breaking one rule or another, but neither of them had been very good at rules when it came to things like this. If they didn’t try to help someone adrift, then what use was the principles Ford had passed onto them?

“Thank you for having us, Sasha. I hope we’re not intruding?” Milla asks with a slight smile, the polite one she used to use for people who looked down their noses at either her name or her voice, and Sasha snorts. Replies easily, blandly even, “You’ve rescued me from an afternoon of chores to talk about writing, I’d consider this a gift,” and Milla’s smile finally looks real. It always looked so wrong when it wasn’t, and it’s like he can breathe easier after that.

“So,” he continues, for a moment reaching for a cigarette pack that isn’t there before turning it into tucking a hand in his pocket, “I heard you’re a fan of Psychic Tales. I’m willing to answer questions about it, if you’ll both indulge an old man and sit on the back porch with him?”

For the first time since entering his home Razputin Aquato looks up, and meets his eyes with a look close to awe.  Says quietly, like he doesn’t expect to be heard, “Oh my god, Miss Vodello is actually the Minx,” and Sasha smiles slightly again. Replies casually as he starts heading to the backdoor, “Yes, and my friend Eddie is Ragnarok. He’s even louder in person.”

Somehow this meeting ends up with a ten year old, a twelve year old, a fifteen year old stopping over the years to study in their backyard. Climbing over the large wooden fence that’s big enough to admit a car, settles in one of the patio chairs, and works on assorted homework and random ideas until he disappears into the night. The first time Sasha calls Milla out of concern, the fifth he ends up sitting out there with a notebook in hand and two glasses of water, by the twentieth he rolls his eyes and says “Eddie can drop you off, just this once, mind you.”

(It’s never the last time, and somewhere along the line Eddie starts joking they adopted a kid by accident. Sasha never denies it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for the fun Googling, cause I went some wild places on this one.
> 
> \- how was coffee made in the 1960s  
> \- 1960s bar raid, bar raids 1950s, how to escape bar raid  
> \- the wolfenden report in American media (OH BOY, FUCK 1950s BRITAIN)  
> \- Frank Kameny supreme court - His entire deal is v. interesting, [here's more stuff from his work as an activist ](http://www.kamenypapers.org/memorabilia.htm)  
> \- would people have said fuck in the 50s – Apparently, they said ‘damn’ and ‘hell’ a lot more often, and fuck didn’t become more common til the late 60s.  
> \- federal government jobs 1960s – Even if Sasha wasn't with the DOD or Homeland Security, I felt like it was plausible they were cracking down on anyone in a highish position in any of the federal sectors. So, Social Services!  
> \- when were swamp coolers invented (As early as 1906)  
> \- when did New York get electric streetlighting (Sodium streetlights with the orange-yellow glow weren’t a thing until the 70s, so I’m taking a bet on mercury vapor lights that are blue-green.)  
> \- 1960s hot rods
> 
> Books which helped me: Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers by Lillian Faderman, Finding Out: An Intro to LGBT Studies (textbook), and part of The Lavender Menace by David K. Johnson. 
> 
> This whole endeavor took me down weird rabbit holes, and congrats! My joke about becoming a gay archivist looks more real by the day.
> 
> ALSO, because no self restraint, y'all get a pinterest board and a youtube mix too alongside some bonus content.
> 
>  
> 
> [ Playlist (put on random) ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLgWZKwSp4GeY8mFx4WguWXy9gDCtQPVcC)  
> [Pinterest Board](https://www.pinterest.com/insomniacowl/found-something-new-by-looking-at-you/)


	2. Bonus #1: We Gotta Get Together (The Sooner The Better)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 1961, and Ford Cruller is mulling over whether or not to go punch a president. The fact he's living with an ex-Mountie in Ottawa doesn't really register as an obstacle to that.
> 
> Title comes from He's So Fine by The Chiffons.

Ford opens his paper, only to snap it close with an annoyed sound. “Dagnabbit, y’leave a place alone for five minutes…” He curses, and folds it rather pointedly. Much louder, he calls out “Herbie, honey? We got time t’do some runnin’ around?”

The floorboards creak in the hallway, there’s the familiar shuffle of slippers, and then Herbert’s leaning against the door way holding his robe closed.  Even now there’s a little thrill of seeing him there, with hair gone steely gray, dark eyes lovely as ever, and shoulders hunched by age.

Six years, and the feeling still hasn’t worn out its welcome.

“Depends, mon loup. Visiting the children, or, ah, est-ce que t’as mal a cœur?” Herbert asks, making a vague gesture as he struggles for the English equivalent so early in the morning. He blinks owlishly once he’s managed to slide on his glasses, and shuffles towards the percolator where Ford’s left a mug out for him. There’s a comfortable silence in the kitchen as Herbert sips at his first cup, raising an eyebrow in question until Ford slides the newspaper over to him.

Ford at least has enough manners to wait until Herbert has set his mug down to say bluntly “Seems like I got a president t’punch. Maybe a side trip for the kids, if we can manage.” He shrugs with an innocent expression after Hebert makes a strangled noise alongside an incredulous look. “Two birds with one stone, as they say.” Ford adds casually before drinking some more coffee, giving Herbert enough time to flip through the pages and come to his own conclusion.

“…Ford, mon chéri, you are my moon and stars, but I can’t support this. Even if this, this man is un enfant de chienne in your eyes." Herbert eventually replies, and Ford snorts. Flaps a hand at him, and says “Now, none of that, Herb. We had this talk, I ain’t a five year old. Gonna call a man a sonuvabith, y’can say it plain. None of this…” He gestures as if grasping for a lost thought, and Herbert makes a questioning noise as he takes another sip from his mug.

“Don’t have t’slip into another language for my sensibilities.” Ford eventually settles on, even if it falls flat by the end. But Herbert laughs, that ridiculous wheezing laugh of his like the man can’t breathe properly, and hell if it doesn’t give Ford a warm fuzzy feeling he can’t shake.

That feeling’s been sticking around longer and longer the more days that have slipped by, and he’d swear that someday it’ll stick.

“Fine, mon loup, I’ll stop. If I drop a ‘damn’ in front of others, you’re responsible.” Herbert replies, grin as charming as it was nearly thirty years ago as the corner of his eyes crinkle up, and Ford can’t help but chuckle at that. Say warmly as he slides the paper back over to himself, “Take credit for you relaxin’? Not exactly a hardship there, honey.”

The endearments still feel a little strange in his mouth, like this is all a dream and eventually he’ll wake up. With Milla and Sasha they’d basically become his kids, and at most he might call Milla ‘sweetheart’ and Sasha ‘son’. Clear-cut, easily defined labels, because no one blinked an eye at that back then. One of them was his secretary, the other his assistant, and it would’ve been stranger if he hadn’t been friendly with them.

Then there was goddamn Eisenhower, and everything was downhill from there.

Well, almost everything.

“Anything I can do to convince you Kennedy isn’t worth it?” Herbert asks, propping his chin up on his upturned palm almost lazily, eyes half-lidded the way they get when he’s at ease, and it’s one of the sweetest things Ford’s ever seen. At heart he’s always been fond of these moments, the easy quiet they lent themselves to. A fond look shared over meals, the brush of fingertips when walking side by side, even the way a hand could linger on the shoulder for a moment too long. Small things maybe, but they meant the world when you had to hide your affections damn near daily.

“…Hm. That’s a big thing t’ask, Herbie, don’t think I can let this go too easily, y’know.” Ford begins seriously as he meets the other man’s eyes, trying to fight back the smile so close to appearing. “I mean, we’re talkin’ a walk with Bennett, maybe some coffee an’ donuts from that place I like, maybe even some fishin’ later…” he offers innocently as he starts counting each demand on his fingers, and Herbert snorts, leans back in his chair.

Wearing a faint smile of his own, he replies close to deadpan as he fixes his glasses, “Oh no, the things I do for maintiens le droit. I will surely suffer spending time with my dog and lover, what is this world coming to,” and all Ford can do in reply is laugh. It doesn’t sound the same way it used to, all it takes is a glance at their wrinkled and spotted hands to see the truth of that, but the feeling behind it is still the same.

Fondness, joy, and a happiness that can’t be shaken as long as they’re together.

(No one blinks an eye at the two old men in thick jackets walking a German shepherd anymore, chattering about whatever seems to come to mind. In the beginning there was some tittering about a retired Mountie housing an American, but within a few months it died down. It was almost sweet in a way, two old friends deciding to care for each other in old age.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Ford kind of ending up as Sasha's mentor/father figure, and I went 'Okay, so why isn't he around in main story.' Joking answer: He hooked up with a Mountie he used to know.
> 
> ...Then I named the Mountie, and it was all downhill from there. So, Herbert Lareau! Met in the 30s when Ford was working with the police, ended with a decades-long relationship built on letters and the occasional visit. Retired in about a year of each other and here they are over 30 years later, arguing if Kennedy should get decked because of the Berlin Wall.
> 
> Fun fact: I watched _Due South_ when I was younger, where the Mountie's dog was named after a Canadian politician. As a tip of the hat I named Herbert's ex-RCMP dog after R.B. Bennett, because Herb's a snarky bastard who likes to point at the pooch and go "Hey look, this one's actually helping the people." 
> 
> Other fact: Apologies to anyone who knows French! I know it looks a little wonky, but it's because I went the Québécois route and that is _wild_ when it comes to insults and colloquialisms.  
> So, rough translations: 'Visiting the children or do you have a bad feeling" (lit. bad heart), "even if this man is a son of a bitch", and the Mountie motto of 'Defending the law' cause Herbert loves to joke a lil.


	3. Bonus #2: Oh, Please Stay By Me (I Love You With All My Heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's some time in the 70s, and Ophelia finished up the first draft of her latest book cover job. She shows the result to Milla, and laughter and happiness ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on prompt 8 "Oh darling, where have you been?" that Sora ended up with a few weeks ago. I kinda borrowed it for this, because I wanted to include some of the background moments of this universe. So, yeah! Have some goofy gals in love.
> 
> Title comes from the English translation of Diana by Conny Froboess.

“Oh darling, where have you been?” Milla asks fondly, resting her book on her chest when Ophelia walks through the front door.

She’s grinning as she unzips her jacket, just as devilish as her uncle, and sets her helmet on the console table, tosses her keys into it. There’s an adorable smudge of charcoal on her cheek, and Milla wants to wipe it from her face. Wants to ask where it came from, what the large document tube on her back holds.

It looks like something an architect carries around, dark leather with some scrapes here and there, and it isn’t hard to imagine it snug against her back as she leans into every turn.

Usually when she was working on a commission, she kept her sketchbook on hand. Anything bigger she slid what she needed into protective sleeves, and kept them between pieces of cardboard in her messenger bag. The document tube only came out for the large projects, where a few pages wasn’t enough to convey what her mind held.

And in the beautiful flush of an idea realized, Ophelia was perhaps most gorgeous of all.

How could she resist wanting to know, when her lover’s cheeks held that flush right now. When she looked so proud slinging the document tube off her back, setting it on the kitchen counter and uncapping the tube with a fumbling kind of excitement.

“Hey, you remember how Sasha started writing?” Ophelia asks, still grinning a bit wildly as she removes the rolled-up papers, starts flattening them out with gloved hands. “Cause I think he was holding out on us last time we called, sweetheart, considering what his publisher just okayed.” She gestures for Milla to come over once she’s put a nearby half-full mug to work on holding a corner down, some mail they hadn’t gone through yet.

Curiosity piqued Milla sets her book aside, mentally apologizing as the spine bows, and wanders over. Ends up standing at Ophelia’s side because it makes less sense upside down, only to blink, and laugh.

Something close to her face, because Ophelia always loved drawing from real life, looks back at her from a woman dodging under the arm of a robot. To the right side, a man that’s suspiciously Sasha-shaped looks like he’s reaching out for something bursting from the main chest area. High above the robot, near where the title box is blocked out for, there’s a cackling figure on a catwalk that looks remarkably similar to a man who’d once been the bane of their existences.

“I have some photos, if you want the resemblance to be uncanny,” Milla replies, unable to help herself as she gives into a fit of giggles. Ophelia smiles, and presses a kiss to the side of her head. Wraps an arm around her waist, and says a bit teasingly “I had a feeling you would. You two still share a brain, don’t you?”

“Oh, without question, darling,” Milla replies, and smiles when Ophelia kisses her properly this time.


	4. Bonus #3: PSYCHIC TALES, Book #5 - The Return of the Drowned Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An excerpt of Chapter 6, "The Queen's Reach", from book #5 of the Psychic Tales series by Alexander Riggs. Also included are notes from his own desk about some of the characters from this series.

PSYCHIC TALES, Book #5- The Return of the Drowned Queen

Chapter 6, “The Queen’s Reach”

\--

Reinhard grits his teeth, mind clouded still and senses dull. Without his abilities there’s nothing to be done against the Queen’s watery binds, no way to free himself from them.

And Agent Minx is still absent, which leaves a cool chill going down his spine. What horrors has this woman done to prevent his partner from being present, what traps could have stopped Camilla cold? She was like a cat, able to slip through a situation like water given a body. For her to not be here, there was only dread on his mind.

“What’s wrong, Agent Nine?” the Drowned Queen asks, a low cultured purr that feels like oil dripping on bare skin, and everything about her seems to personify that. From her hair shining blue-black under the harsh halogen light, to the shining leather of her dress where it isn’t obscured by lace, she is spilled oil, the pitch black of the sky past midnight, the creeping dread of something watching from the shadows.

“Looking for your friend, expecting some miraculous rescue?” she continues, and her grin is the flash of a knife, waiting for soft flesh to dig into. She saunters closer, the trail of her dress rasping against the floor in the dead quiet, and it feels like bugs skittering along his skin. Leaves an anxiety humming through his body, even as he maintains a stoic façade. Resists the urge to reach out to Minx with a psychic cry of _Camilla,_ knowing from experience that it would only provide the Drowned Queen more to use against him.

How a woman of her prowess managed to evade the Psychonauts from the beginning was a mystery, as well as something worthy of mourning. She could have been a fine agent, just as Ragnarok has found a home as their quartermaster after Reinhard had successfully persuaded him to give up his old ways.

Instead, she was still a woman half-dead, doomed by the accident that led to her gifts developing. Even now there’s the faint slosh of water as she walks, a quiet gurgle after every breath. Damned by the very water that had saved her, and the thought makes his stomach rebel.

Her touch, unnaturally cold against his cheek, makes the feeling even worse as she cups his cheek like a mother speaking to a child. Her words mocking and dismissive in one fell swoop, as she pushes further with a soft “No one’s coming to save you, Agent, no on even knows you’re here. No one but me and my puppet, who you might find…familiar.” She pulls away with something close to a caress, the smell of roses around her barely doing anything to hide the smell of brine and rot underneath, and the cool chill down his spine turns into a gaping maw in the pit of his stomach at her words.

She laughs, and it’s a light brittle thing, the snap of broken glass against stone and of death bells tolling. Her grin is the flash of a knife finding purpose, the predator within the shadows who’s finally scented blood. Skin to skin contact was enough for any psychic worth their salt to pick up emotion, and she was terrifying enough that with his abilities hindered he was an open book to her.

“Oh, don’t worry, Nine. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s far much worse.”

\---

NOTES FROM THE DESK OF ALEXANDER RIGGS ABOUT PSYCHIC TALES

\---

-Dr. Oblongata, mad scientist with a plan to use laughing gas in order to subdue his victims before brain snatching to power some monstrous machine. Psychic ability to disguise self, which is how he constantly escapes. Perhaps leads some rival agency, or gets involved with other plots? Based on goddamn Loboto, so he constantly stresses the fact he’s a doctor while those around him are not, has a horrid laugh, and has no damn hygiene whatsoever so his lab practices are atrocious. Make him look ridiculous  ~~I will give this man no dignity as my old higher up.~~

-Edwin Ragnarok, genius denied his chance at prestigious schooling, took revenge via robots and death machines. Caused chaos and city-wide rampages, no psychic abilities besides an uncanny understanding of how even the simplest things can fit together into something terrifying. Ended up persuaded to join the Psychonauts by Agent Nine, via a) locating Ragnarok’s father to get further information and b) emphasizing how Edwin’s work could change the course of humanity if he used it for good instead. Ends up as Quartermaster, creating things for the Psychonauts Agency. Ask Eddie for ideas on what he would build in these situations if money and skill were no trouble.

-Drowned Queen, no known name as I’m still trying to find something less obvious than Ophelia (Note to self: Apologize to Ophelia later, it is a fine name but I don’t want things too obvious.) Psychic talented with manipulating water as well as minds, partially resurrected self after a near-drowning. Unknowingly left some of the damage intact, ended up seeing the world as a cruel damaged place that needs to be destroyed so it can be put together better. A case of a stained glass window being shattered and put together wrong, very beautiful but very dangerous. Goal is to rule the world after fracturing it, can make others her mental puppets as well, subplot of Minx trying to rescue her as Reinhard did with Edwin.

-Agent Minx, aka Camilla Minx. Psychic talented with levitation and telekinesis, as well as the other gamut of abilities. Those two are her strongest, however. Consult with Milla on the appropriate terminology for her colorful clothing, as well as a plausible backstory as I am personally unfamiliar with her upbringing. Bright, charismatic, and flashy. Slips in and out of any situation with either a feat of agility or charming words, tends to be the public face of the Nine and Minx Duo because of that. This is indulgent, but if I can preserve my family through writing then so be it. Lovely with a bit of a terrifying streak that can intimidate even the largest man, as she will stand and not break with a will of iron.

-Agent Nine, aka Reinhard Nine. Psychic talented with psychic blasts and levitation, strong in mind reading as well on physical contact. Alright with the other abilities, but not as gifted. Serious, straightforward, dedicated to getting the job done but not at the expense of innocents/fellow agents. Struggles with overly emotional reactions, although Camilla is helping break down that barrier alongside Ragnarok. Trained alongside Camilla under Mr.Cropper, head Psychonaut (note: mail Ford, ask if H is alright with being an assistant/included in series), helped Ragnarok due to own upbringing where he also felt isolated in a strange land, didn’t belong anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist the chance to write something faintly pulpy, and inspired by _The Avengers_ tv show from the late 60s. This is loosely based on the plot of the Boom! _Steed and Mrs.Peel_ comic from a few years ago, specifically Chapter 3 of 'A Very Civil Armageddon'. In it Mrs. Peel is brainwashed by the Hellfire Club who are all about the leather only to be snapped out of it by Steed, and it made weird sense that Drowned Ophelia in the Psychonauts world could have some similar brainwashing abilities.
> 
> In-universe, Ophelia designs all the book covers for Psychic Tales and Sasha does all the words under his penname. They're a good creative duo when it comes to that kind of thing. Oleander is also included in the stories as Agent Nerium, who raises psychic bunnies and uses them to his advantage. If you can't have fun writing you and your friends as secret agents, then when can you?


End file.
